


How We Got Here

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dating other people, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Future Fic, Light Angst, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Stilinski Family Feels, Teacher Derek, everyone knows, except these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 22:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13580295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Maybe if you fight the creatures of the night together like they did, if you bury enough friends and strangers and enemies, you don’t lose touch.He thinks that’s why he and Derek are friends--because Derek understands his nightmares, understands the nights when he can’t talk, and the nights he can’t stand the dark.OR:Against all odds and expectations, Stiles and Derek have become respectable adults (WHY?) and friends.





	How We Got Here

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Как так получилось](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13725051) by [WTF_Tyler_Hoechlin_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Tyler_Hoechlin_2018/pseuds/WTF_Tyler_Hoechlin_2018)



 

~1~

“We used to be cool,” Stiles says, staring morosely at the test in front of him.

Derek, absorbed in an essay, grunts.

“We used to go out to a bar,” Stiles continues, “celebrated still being alive with a beer and fucking strangers.”

“That was before we had responsibilities,” Derek says, dryly, glancing at him.

“I miss those days,” Stiles says wistfully.

Derek snorts, and snaps the essay closed and Stiles taps the test with a red pen. “Niki Smith is getting better at this.”

Derek smiles, that pleased little grin he always gives when his students are doing well.

 _Who knew Derek Hale would be a fucking teacher? And_ good _at it,_ Stiles thinks, smiling into the next test.

Derek is still wearing the bloody shirt he was wearing when they emerged from the Preserve after fighting an omega who wandered into town.

Even now, years after high school, years after the McCall pack left Beacon Hills for good, Beacon Hills is claimed--by the Hellhound deputy, by the lone remaining Hale, by the boy who runs with wolves--and they’re jealous in protecting their territory.

It’s not unusual, is the thing. The whole night, the fight and the way they drove back here and fell into grading Derek’s tests without ever really discussing it, something mindless on Netflix droning in the background.

Stiles bitches a little bit, out of habit, but it’s comfortable and reassuring in ways he doesn’t want to think about, so he grades another test while Derek works his way through the essays.

 

-*-

 

He isn’t sure when they became adults. For so long it was one bloody fight after another and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t survive graduation, much less to become a functioning member of society.

But he did, and sometimes, when he’s doing a phone consultation with a client, it occurs to him that it’s strange, this life that they live.

He always thought he’d leave Beacon Hills, come back after a few years of college and take up right where his Dad left off, step into the Sheriff’s office and uniform and life.

He’d have two point five kids and a dog and a fence that wasn’t white picket but only because he was a lazy bastard who never painted it. Scott would live a few doors down and their wives would be best of friends and their kids would grow up getting into just as much shit as they did.

It's not the way it goes. That doesn’t even surprise him because life has been making a habit of not going the way he expected since he was a sophomore in high school.

Scott left Beacon Hills with Kira when the skinwalkers let her go, halfway through their junior year of college, and Stiles wasn’t even surprised when Liam and Mason followed him. Theo went where Liam did and Hayden had been gone since the Wild Hunt spit them back out.

It wasn’t surprising, really.

But it was quiet, without the pack to fill up his days and nights. Lydia went to London with Jackson and Ethan, and he Skyped with her, to consult on cases, and because they were still close.

Stiles thinks sometimes that maybe his dad was right, and you don’t get to keep your high school friends, but then again, he wasn’t because even with the McCall pack in Japan and Lydia in London, they still spoke, regularly, called and texted enough that Stiles was glad he wasn’t the one getting hit with international rates.

Maybe if you fight the creatures of the night together like they did, if you bury enough friends and strangers and enemies, you don’t lose touch.

He thinks that’s why he and Derek are friends--because Derek understands his nightmares, understands the nights when he can’t talk, and the nights he can’t stand the dark.

Derek knows why Stiles will show up at three am and watch trashy TV on his couch, wrapped up in a blanket.

Derek doesn’t push him to talk, when he finds Stiles in his house, just joins him on the couch with hot tea or whiskey or a wolfsbane laced joint, and lets the memories and night swirl around them.

When Derek crawls through his bedroom window--even now, years later, even when Stiles lives in an apartment complex, and thank fuck he got a unit near the back facing the woods--Stiles doesn’t comment on it either, just shuffles to one side of the bed and lets Derek fill up the empty space he leaves behind.

They didn’t set out to become friends. Stiles didn’t really intend for this to be his life.

It just happened, the way that life has always just happened.

When he steps into the coffee shop on Main after school lets out, and he’s finished his latest translation for a client, and finds Derek there, with a thick book and two cups of coffee, he grins and thinks that maybe this life they fell into isn’t so bad.

Derek gives him a blank stare when he says as much, before he rolls his eyes and says, undeniably fond, “Shut up and drink your coffee, Stiles.”

 

~2~

 

Stiles is already sitting at the bar when Derek pushes in, leaning in toward Chrissy as she pours a beer. The set of his shoulders is loose, relaxed, the kind of ease that Derek is used to seeing in Stiles now days.

He lets out the breath he always seems to be holding around Stiles, in those first few seconds of seeing him and gauging him. Lets out the tension that pools in his gut and tightens his shoulders, and makes his way across the bar to bump a friendly shoulder into Stiles as he sits on the stool next to him.

“You’re late,” Stiles says, without even looking away from his phone.

Chrissy kinda smirks at him as she puts a dark ale in front of him and then moves away.

“I didn’t realize we had an appointment,” Derek says mildly and Stiles gives him that disbelieving raised eyebrow he learned from the werewolf, before he turns back to his phone.

“I ordered the burger you like. But it’s your turn to pay.”

Derek nods agreeably and sips his beer as Stiles goes down his list of new clients and translations, of the wards set off this week and what might be threatening their territory.

It’s not a standing appointment, per se. But it’s something they do, get together, usually just him and Stiles, although when he can, Parrish joins them.

And they look at things. After college, when the internship with the FBI went belly up and Stiles figured out that he couldn’t work for his dad and preserve the relationship they had, he started networking.

He worked with Chris for a while, and Rafa McCall to coordinate with on the federal level when supernatural threats arose. There was even a year, when Stiles disappeared, went completely off the grid, and came back different--withdrawn and wiry with muscle, his hair shaggy and a thick beard covering his face.

There were scars that Derek saw, when he crept into Stiles apartment at night and found him in his boxers asleep, scars that weren’t the remnants of a misspent youth. Claws that came from a _creature,_ and he knew from the nightmares--those were just the scars he saw.

Stiles didn’t like to talk about it, but after that year, he stayed close. Set up a consultation business, where he coordinated with hunters and packs Derek trusted and the feds, passing along information, keeping people--and the supernatural--alive.

He was good at it, and Derek was absurdly--because he had no right to be, but he _was_ \--proud of him.

“Are you even listening?” Stiles says, grumpily and Derek blinks.

“Are you even saying anything?” Derek snarks back.

Chrissy tuts at them, setting their dinners down and snagging Derek’s empty pilsner. “You boys be nice. It’s too early in the evening for a domestic.”

“It’s never too early,” Stiles grins at her and she shoves his face back lightly as she puts the beer in front of Derek.

It annoys him, in a vague sort of way, that she is so casual in touching Stiles, but he bites down that thought and picks up his burger.

“So the rouge alpha in Tucson is being handled by the feds, the Jones clan is taking care of the mermaid pod in the Gulf and the Canadian pack thinks there’s a yeti headed our way?” Derek says, recapping what Stiles had rambled on about, and Stiles pauses, something bright and indulgent in his eyes.

“Aww, baby, I knew you listened when I talked.”

Derek’s eyes flared a bright blue and he leaned close, close enough to get the scent of the younger man in his nose, and the heat of Stiles against his lips and growled, “Call me baby one more time, and I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.”

He smirked, pulling away as Stiles shuddered.

 

~*~

 

It took him a long time to come back. But not as long as he thought it would. He _did_ come back, and he stayed.

After Monroe, and the Anuke Te, after Kate killed Gerard and died herself--he stayed.

Stiles grinned at him, a shattered sort of smile that he recognized because they fought the same wars, carried the same demons--Stiles grinned and said he was healthy, or something like it.

And maybe--maybe he was right.

Or maybe Derek was on his way to it.

It took time--Derek hid in his loft a lot, that first year, after the fight, and Stiles would show up and drag him out, to fight some creature of the night or to buy him the beer he was still too young to drink, or sometimes just to watch a movie. Stiles forced his way into Derek’s life slowly, but inexorably, and when Derek asked him why, all Stiles could say was, _no one else gets it._

It was a simple reason that rang true.

They fell into each other’s lives the same way they had when Stiles was in high school--out of necessity and maybe it wasn’t a good thing to build a friendship on.

Maybe they weren’t the person the other would choose.

But they were what they had. After everyone else left, and it was just the two of them, trying to be better, trying to keep everyone in this damn town alive, finding each other was the only choice they had.

Sometimes, when Stiles is fighting with him about how to handle a coven of witches camped in the Preserve, he hates that.

But most of the time, when he finds Stiles on his couch, wide eyed and exhausted, when he sits next to him in a bar and listens to him ramble--most of the times, he’s glad he found this strange boy to be his friend.

 

~3~

 

“Do I need milk?” Stiles mutters, pushing the cart along. It’s late enough that no one is giving him side-eye for talking to himself.

Not that Stiles Stilinski talking to himself is that strange, as things go in Beacon Hills.

“Yes. We drank the last of it when I made hot chocolate last night,” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t even flail.

He points at the older man. “You’re late.”

“Parent-teacher conferences,” Derek says shortly, and Stiles makes an appropriately sympathetic face.

“Here,” he says, as they pass the bakery, “you earned these.”

Derek eyes the brownies Stiles places in his cart and then eyes his friend. “You know you don’t get to control my diet the way you do your dad, right?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, and keeps nudging Derek in the direction of produce. They bicker their way through the store, picking out vegetables and cuts of meat-- _”Chicken isn’t a bad thing, Derek.”_

_“I like beef.”_

_“Your heart likes chicken!”_ \--until they reach the front, with roughly half the store in their two carts. Stiles slumps a little, leaning back against Derek as they wait their turn. This is the part he hates, the reason they started shopping together in the first place.

The checkout girl smiles too big and bright at them, her eyes flicking past Stiles to land on Derek quickly and her smile goes sly and flirty.

Stiles bristles, and straightens, tossing their groceries on the conveyor belt as she purrs out, “Hi, Derek.”

He kind of grunts--even after all these years, he doesn’t like talking and is absolutely horrible at it to strangers.

“You’re here late,” she adds, her smile going a little dirty.

“We’re here the same time we always are,” Stiles snaps, and her gaze snags on him, just for a second. Stiles wants to snarl when her eyes go back to Derek, blatant and hungry as she checks him out, and he opens his mouth, starts to snarl, when Derek’s grip on his waist--when the _fuck_ did Derek wrap an arm around his waist?--tightens, just a little. Just enough to snap his attention to Derek.

“Do you want to come over tomorrow for dinner?”

He’s still putting the groceries on the belt, but his focus is on Stiles, now, intent on his answer, and the cashier has faded to an afterthought.

“We can watch Star Wars,” he adds, sweetening the deal a little, and Stiles sighs.

“Venison chili?”

Derek rolls his eyes, because the _kill me a deer, Derek_ jokes will never be funny. “Yes, idiot. Venison chili.”

Stiles smiles, and nods, letting Derek distract him until they’re finished, and they’re outside, with a mess of groceries that will be a pain in the ass to sort out, but he doesn’t mind so much because Derek is smiling and his mouth isn’t tight and angry, and they don’t have to deal with that damn woman for another two weeks.

It takes him until he’s almost home, Derek trailing him to retrieve his groceries, before he realizes that Derek paid for everything.

 

~*~

 

“You look pitiful,” John says, and Stiles flicks a grumpy look at his father. “It’s for seven days, Stiles.”

“I know how long it is,” Stiles says. “And I’m only grumpy because I had to evict those pixies from the preserve by myself.”

John arches an eyebrow, “Uh-huh.”

“Are you just gonna be a dick?” Stiles says, indignant, “Because I can go home and get that shit from Derek’s cat.”

John laughs, “You’re watching his cat?”

“Peter doesn’t like strangers,” Stiles mutters, pulling the chicken from the oven. With a little help from Derek--and he wasn’t going to admit that to his dad, he got enough shit thank you--he’d managed to learn how to make food that was healthy and actually tasted good enough that John didn’t whine _every_ time Stiles said no to steak.

“And you, of course, aren’t a stranger,” John says dryly. Stiles shoots him a confused stare and John shakes his head, smiling into his chicken and asparagus.

It’s later, when Derek is on the phone and Peter--the ugliest, meanest tomcat Stiles had ever seen and who he had promptly called Peter because it would annoy the shit out of Derek’s uncle--curled next to him on the bed, growling quietly every time Stiles pets him, that he thinks about it, that strange tone and heavy stare his father gave him.

“Dad is being weird,” he says, cutting Derek off in the middle of a mild rant about Mrs. Epps flirting.

Derek pauses, and then, “Weird, we need to worry, or weird, you’re being suspicious because there hasn’t been a problem in six days?”

“Dammit, Derek, _pixies.”_ Stiles snaps and Peter hisses, biting at his hand.

“Stiles,” Derek says, patiently.

He flops onto his back, staring up into the dark. He’s exhausted, and there’s still five days left on Derek’s damn trip. He hates it, the week Derek takes his Spanish class to Mexico. The kids love it--hell, _Derek_ loves it.

But he never sleeps well, knowing Derek is so far away, remembering the last time they were in Mexico together and how that had ended.

“Just weird. He was asking about you. Peter. I don’t know, man, you had to have been there, I think.”

Derek makes a noncommittal noise, and then, “I’m sure he’s fine.”

Stiles is quiet, long enough that he hears a soft rustle, like Derek is sitting up in his little room on some beach in Mexico.

He misses him, suddenly, an unfamiliar pang of longing that shakes him.

“Stiles?” Derek says, his voice soft and concerned. “Do you want me to come home?”

Stiles pulls the phone from his head, and blinks a few times, absurdly glad Derek _isn’t_ here, because his emotions are all over the damn place.

When he can breath, he shakes his head and says, “No, it’s--it’s fine. He’s fine. We’ll talk about it when you get back.”

“Call me if anything else happens,” Derek says, soft and worried and steady.

Stiles nods, and Derek adds, dryly, “And stop letting my cat sleep with you--you’re gonna spoil him.”

“Shut up,” he mutters and Derek’s laughing, when he hangs up.

  


~4~

 

His whole body aches when he pulls up to his house.

There was a part of him--a bigger part than he wants to admit--that wants to keep driving, until he reaches Stiles’ apartment, until he crawls through his open window and into his soft bed, the scent of his friend as comforting as the blanket he’d pull over them.

But it’s late, and Stiles said he was going out with friends from work, to see a movie he’d been talking about for months.

Derek tried not to be hurt by the fact that he went to see it with someone beside him. It wasn’t fair to ask Stiles to live his life around Derek. Stiles gave him enough, without demanding more.

Sometimes, remembering that was the  only thing that kept Derek from demanding everything, demanding so much more than Stiles wanted to give.

He stumbled into the house, and drops his bag at the door. Tomorrow he’ll trip over it, and Stiles will give him an unimpressed stare that will make him empty it into the washing machine, but for now--for now, he doesn’t give a fuck. He strips as he walks, toeing out of his shoes and by the time he reaches the bedroom, he’s only in his boxers, and exhaustion is making everything fuzzy.

But the man and cat in his bed are crystal clear, and a tiny noise of relief slips from him.

Stiles blinks as Derek slides into bed, scoots to his side wordlessly. As his body sinks into the bed, his muscles and joints settling with an ache so deep it’s almost painful, he feels like he’s finally actually _home._

“Long trip?” Stiles asks, his voice thick with sleep. Peter hisses disagreeably and Derek strokes a hand down the cat’s back.

He grunts and shoves his face into his pillow. As sleep claims him, he hears, faint and far away, “Welcome home, big guy.”

 

~*~

 

There are some things they don’t talk about.

Well.

No.

There are a lot of things they don’t talk about.

Sometimes Derek thinks it’s because they don’t _need_ to, that after all the years, they just _work,_ the way soldiers in the same unit does, the way pack does, the way partners do.

But then.

There are things he knows they should talk about. Things like this.

Waking up next to Stiles isn’t new, or even unusual, in the grand scheme of things. They’d been doing this or something similar to it since Stiles was in highschool and the Stilinski house became synonymous with safety, when _Stiles_ became synonymous with safety. There were so many night, when he stumbled bleeding and tired from another fight, running from hunters or monsters or his own demons, and landed in Stiles room.

It happened enough that Stiles didn’t even flinch, just waved at the bed, and handed him the remote to his TV, gave him sweatpants that were a little too tight and small. It happened enough that Stiles’ bed smelled like him enough that he could relax into it, sleep there easily, maybe more easily than he could at home because Stiles was there, and he had learned that Stiles was human and weak and needed to be protected--but he was also fierce and loyal and fought like a wolf to keep those he cared about alive, and somehow--he didn’t know _how_ \--Derek had become one of those people.

No, it’s not waking up next to Stiles that leaves him unsettled and anxious. It’s the way Peter curls around Stiles’ feet in the kitchen, the way Derek has to keep himself from leaning into the other man, the way they move around each other, natural and easy and practiced as they make breakfast, as Derek tells him about the trip, as Stiles talks about what’s going on in Beacon Hills and the surrounding states.

Its unsettling because he wants to keep this.

He wants to come home to this, every day, and he can’t. He knows he can’t. Stiles isn’t his, not really. They’re friends, even good friends.

Derek is self aware enough to admit that Stiles is the best friend he’s ever had.

But that is all they’ve ever been, all Stiles has ever wanted.

For the first time, Derek realizes that he wants more, and it makes him ache with the need to run.

  


~5~

 

Derek is quiet, brooding into his beer, as Stiles talks, and it’s beginning to annoy him. Because the werewolf has been home for almost two weeks, but ever since his trip to Mexico with the good students of Beacon Hills, he’s been moody. Withdrawn and quiet, barely meeting Stiles’ eye when they talked.

He blew off dinner at the Stilinski house, claiming he needed to grade tests.

And Stiles knew better, knew damn well they’d finished the tests before he went to Mexico, but he didn’t say anything. Just nodded and let the other man get away with his dodging.

Derek did this, sometimes--retreated from Stiles and the other people who filled up his life. But usually there was a reason--the moon, or an anniversary of someone’s death, or even a pretty blonde who looked too much like Erica.

Once he retreated--actually fucking left Beacon Hills, something he hadn’t done since Stiles was in high school--for a month because a girl wearing the same perfume Kate favored had eyed him and called him sweetheart.

And he knew, he _knew_ , that Derek had his baggage, that not every trigger was immediate and on the surface.

So he gave Derek space, spent more time in his apartment alone, doing translating jobs and coordinating with hunters and packs to neutralize potential threats before blood had to be shed.

But he missed it, the quiet hum of energy that always filled his apartment when Derek was here, reading or working.

He missed the dry humor and the easy banter.

“Where is Derek?”

A question he gets asked, over and over, when he goes to lunch and stops by the post office, when he picks up his dad’s prescriptions and swings by the sheriff’s office.

But it’s only when he’s shopping, pushing his car grumpily through Kroger on their normal Wednesday--alone because god only knows where Derek is--that he snaps.

“So, where is Derek?” Shelly purrs.

He remembers when they started shopping together. Shelly had just been hired, and Derek almost fell out of Kroger, wild eyed, and crashed into Stiles.

It wasn’t the normal tired disgust Derek had when dealing with his many admirers. It was almost like he was _afraid_ of her, something that made Stiles blood pound.

They’d been shopping together since, because having Stiles as a buffer slowed Shelly’s flirting and dirty insinuations, but never really _stopped_  them.

“Naked in my bed,” Stiles says, sweetly, and Shelly gives him a furious glare for a moment, before something dreamy settles over her gaze.

“That’s a lovely thought, isn’t it?”

His stomach turns. “For god’s sake, _stop_ . He’s not yours. He’s _never_ going to be yours. Keep your fucking fantasies to yourself.”

Shelly flushes and Stiles blinks as the silence of the store settles around him. That--that was louder than he meant it to be.

But she’s quiet, her face pale and her lips tight, as she finishes ringing up his groceries.

Maybe the half-dozen workers and the handful of late night shoppers watching him like a sideshow freak will be worth it, if Shelly leaves Derek the fuck alone.

 

~*~

 

He hears the window creak, and then the soft sound of Derek landing in his bedroom, but he doesn’t bother stopping what he’s doing. Derek will come find him. Even right now, when he’s acting weird and distant and broody--and god, Stiles had begun to think they were past this, Derek had been doing so fucking _good_ \--Derek seems unable to stay away from him.

He’s going to be pissed, Stiles already knows.

Derek stills in the archway that ends the hall, watching him silently as Stiles checks his weapons bag.

He’s running low on mountain ash--when he comes home, he should stop by and get some from Deaton.

“Where are you going?” Derek asks, his voice tight.

“Faerie ring outside of Vancouver. I’m going to help.”

Derek growls, a low, distinct thing and Stiles sits back to stare up at him, unimpressed.

“I’ll go with you,” he says, instead of addressing the growl.

“You have to work.”

“You aren’t going by yourself,” Derek snaps, and Stiles goes very still.

“Derek, I don’t know if you’ve forgotten but this is what I do. I keep our world safe--for everyone. So I’m going to go--I’m going to go and hammer out a treaty between the Pack and the Court and I’m gonna keep the Hunters from killing everything not human. Because that’s my _job._ ”

“The Fae don’t _like_ you, Stiles,” Derek snarls. “Do you remember last time?”

Stiles sighs. He remembers. He’s still got the scar from it. “There’s always going to be a last time,” Stiles says, shutting the weapons bag and running a hand through his hair.

“You don’t need to do this. Other people can. You can stay here, with me.”

Stiles eyes go wide and Derek’s pale and wobbly, like he’s two second from bolting.

“Now,” Stiles laughs. “Now you want me to stay? You’ve been treating me like shit since you got home from Mexico and you’re going to try this shit _now?”_

“I had shit to work through,” Derek protests and Stiles laughs, a tired noise. There’s nothing warm there, and he hates that.

He had hoped they could have dinner, before he got on the road.

“Yeah, well so do I, Derek,” Stiles says, hefting his bag on  his shoulder. “Maybe when I get home, you’ll have your head out of your ass.”

Derek shifts, catching Stiles by the shoulder. His voice is soft and his eyes--Stiles looks away because he doesn’t know what that look means and he can’t think about it, not right now.

“Please don’t go,” Derek says, softly. “Stay. I’m sorry.”

The thing is--he wants to.

He wants to so damn bad his eyes sting.

But he doesn’t get to do this. He has a job, and Derek’s tantrums aren’t his responsibility--even if a part of him wants them to be.

“We can talk in a couple weeks, when I get home,” Stiles says and pulls the door open. “Lock up when you leave.”

He goes, while Derek is still standing in the middle of his living room, his hands hanging at his side, his eyes wide and hurt and afraid.

He goes, before he changes his mind.

  


~6~

 

It's a long two weeks. He visits the Sheriff exactly once, and hides in his house the rest of the time.

He glares and stalks around the school and makes one of his students cry before the principal pulls him aside and demands to know what’s wrong with him.

After that, he runs through the Preserve, runs off all the excess energy, the fury burning in his veins, the fear that he doesn’t like to admit.

He wants to find Stiles and apologize, wants to crawl in the other man’s bed and curl up as close as he can, and knows that it won’t be close enough.

And Stiles--Stiles is silent. There are no text messages, no phone calls, nothing at all to help the two weeks drag by faster. Jordan stops by and lets him know that Stiles is alive, that he’s safe, that the fae negotiations are almost over.

He has nightmares, not that those are new or unusual, but he wakes up three times in the first week, and five the second, wolfed out and panting and aching to reach for Stiles.

But there’s nothing from to reach for, not even a message to read, and it aches, an open wound that he can’t stop pressing against.

He misses the other man. And it’s different than the past, when he missed Stiles. When Stiles left but they were fine.

It’s different because there was so much said and not said, between them and he doesn’t know how to get back to even ground.

Seventeen days after Stiles left town, he wakes up to the other man sliding into his bed, and for a second, as he reaches for the younger man, he thinks it’s a dream.

“Don’t,” Stiles grunts, and that startles him into waking. Stiles rolls over. “I’m gross and tired. Just. Go to sleep, Der.”

Derek stares at him, at the shadows smudged under his eyes and the tightness of his mouth, at the stiff set of his shoulders.

“Night, Stiles,” he breathes and Stiles blinks at him. Slow and owlish, and Derek huffs as he burrows into his pillow. He can feel the way Stiles melts into his mattress, and hears the quiet, “Night, Derek,” chasing him back into dreams.

He doesn’t have any nightmares.

 

~*~

 

They aren’t perfect, but it’s better. Derek cooks for Stiles, a big breakfast that is a wordless apology, and Stiles soaks it up, and presses against the werewolf, as he sips his coffee, and it’s not an apology anymore than Derek’s is, but at the same time, it is.

They aren’t perfect, but they’re what they’ve always been and maybe that’s better. Maybe that’s good.

Stiles is quiet, doesn’t talk about the job and Derek is content to give him his silence, isn’t sure he could listen to it this time even if Stiles did want to talk. He doesn’t want to hear about the thing that lured Stiles away from him.

They fill up the space and the silence with other things--his students and what Lydia is working on and John’s mysterious new love interest and

“Do you ever think about it?”

Derek blinks, staring at him. “Think about what?”

“Dating, dumbass,” Stiles says, grinning. “I mean, you’re a young guy, relatively. Do you ever think about it? About having a family, someone to fill your house and bed?”

_No._

_You fill my bed._

_You are my family._

He swallows down the words choking off his breathing, and says, tightly, “I don’t have the best track record.”

“Braeden wasn’t a psychotic serial killer,” Stiles says, and the words are blunt but his tone is gentle, careful and Derek huffs a sigh.

“You don’t date either,” Derek points out and Stiles fidgets.

Actually squirms in his seat until Derek pins him with a glare.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Stiles says and his heart sinks. This is going to be so bad. He already knows.

“We both try. We go on a date and if it’s horrible,” Stiles says, cutting off the protest Derek is already voicing, “we can get high and forget it ever happened. But we try.”

Derek bites his lip and looks away.

“Why is this important to you?” he asks.

“Because I hated leaving you alone for two weeks, Der. I--you shouldn’t be alone.” It’s said with a finality that makes Derek look at him, searching his bright familiar eyes.

Steady and warm, never quite flinching from Derek. Stiles had never flinched away from him.

“Ok,” he says, hoarsely.

  


~7~

 

It's awkward.

Ben is a _nice_ guy. He's got a wide, white smile and soft looking blonde hair and icy blue eyes that grin at Stiles in the low barlight.

Actually, Stiles realizes with a sinking stomach, he looks like Jackson.

Derek will never let him live it down if he dates _Jackson._

Chrissy comes by and her bright smile falters when she sees Jack-- _Ben._

“Stiles,” she says, startled, “Where is your usual partner in crime?”  

“How do you know I'm not?” Ben teases, and Chrissy’s face does something that makes Stiles sit back, an ugly crunch of her expression that makes alarm bells go off in his head. She glares at them before she stalks away and he refocused on Ben.

Right. Date.

“Um. He’s my best friend,” Stiles says, slowly. Ben’s eyebrows inch upward and he grins. “Which is weird as fuck--I hated him at first.”

“What happened?” Ben asks, making a face as he sips his beer. It’s Derek’s favorite, Stiles realizes. Probably not what Ben would have ordered, if Chrissy had asked.

It’s strange that she didn’t ask.

“Um, we kept having to work together. Eventually I realized he wasn’t as bad as I thought. It got easier after that, although--I don’t know. How does anyone become anyone’s friend?”

Ben raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “I mean what made you hate him.”

Stiles blinks, thinking back to the beginning, when they were all so young and stupid.

“I didn’t know him,” he says, simply. “It takes a while to get to know Derek. He’s this brooding leather wrapped cliche but if you get past that and the glaring, he’s a giant marshmallow who rescues kittens on the weekend.”

Not an exaggeration. Derek had started volunteering at the humane society almost two years ago. Stiles still doesn’t think he knows the humane society has him work adoptions because there’s no actual way to resist Derek fucking Hale cuddling kittens.

Ben straightens, frowning. “Wait--do you mean---your best friend is Derek _Hale?”_

Stiles grins, and Chrissy almost throws two burger plates on the table. Ben gives his a bewildered look. “We didn’t order,” he protests but she’s already turning away, ignoring them completely. Ben swings his gaze back to Stiles, slightly panicked, “Is it?”

“Um. Yeah? Is that a problem?”

Ben blinks at  him, and then laughs, a low, hysteria tinged laugh that makes Stiles flinch away from  him.

“Yeah, that’s a problem. Hale is fucking insane.”

Stiles bristles, “Hey!”

Ben takes another swallow of Derek’s beer, and chokes a little, something Stiles takes a vindictive pleasure in. “Go find your boyfriend, Stiles,” he snaps and strides out of the bar.

Stiles scowls and picks at his fries discontentedly. “Asshole,” he mutters.

 

~*~

 

He smells faintly of beer and smoke when he crawls into bed, but he’s too tired to shower, and his head hurts.

He has no fucking clue why Ben bailed so fast or why Chrissy acted so damn hostile while they were there. She glared the entire time she boxed up the dinners he had never actually ordered, and snarled a _have a good night_ that put even Derek’s passive aggressive hostility to shame.

It was almost enough to make Stiles call the other man, but he was _tired_ and Derek was on his date and it was all too much for him to deal with tonight so he sent a quick text and collapsed into his bed.

He only half woke up when Derek came through the window, the squeak of it closing pulling his head up to peer blearily at the other man.

“D’rek?”

“Shhh, go back to sleep,” he murmurs and Stiles hums contentedly. Listens to the far away sounds of Derek’s clothes rustling and then the bed shifts and he’s there, warm pressure close but not quite touching.

Tears sting Stiles eyes as he curls into his pillow, and Derek rubs a hand over his back, wordlessly soothing.

They haven’t done this since before Mexico and whatever the hell happened there and Stiles didn’t realize how much he missed it until Derek was there, hot and heavy and real in his small bed.

“Dinner,” Stiles mutters into his pillow.

“Will be there in the morning,” Derek promises and he lets exhaustion tug him back down, his muscles lax and his mind quiet in this safe bubble of dark and Derek.

  


~8~

 

The date is a disaster. He isn’t even surprised.

He thinks he’d have been more surprised if it had gone well.

When Stiles comes up with the brilliant idea that they date, Derek had reluctantly dropped by Hailey Phillips room. She taught Chemistry and she always smelled faintly of chemicals but she was also painfully human, and she’d been watching him with hopeful but resigned eyes for over a year.

Taking her to dinner was easy.

The problem was.

“Have you read _Pillars of the Earth?_ I saw it on your desk last week.”

Derek shook his head and a smile tugged up his lips. “No. Stiles gave it to me--he said I’d love it, but I haven’t had time.”

Hailey’s lips tightened and Derek cleared his throat and steered the conversation toward a novel he’d read the week before.

“What did you think of Mexico?”

“I love it there. I keep telling Stiles we should go but the last time we were in Mexico together left a bad impression so--” he glances up and sees the dark look in her eyes and says, hastily, “Do you like Mexico?”

“It’s lovely,” she grits out and the server arrives with their dinner.

She’s having eggplant parmesan and he fumbles desperately for something to talk about that isn’t Stiles. “Do you like to cook?”

Hailey brightens. “I do! I’m not very good, though. I burnt pasta last time I made it.”

“I only cook pasta,” he says, cutting a bite of lasagna free.

“That must get repetitive,” she says, a little bewildered and he shrugs.

“Stiles can cook anything else, so it works.”

_Shit._

“Sorry,” he blurts out, before she can say anything. “I just--he’s a big part of my life. I forget sometimes, how big.”

“Does he know, how important he is to you?” she asks, gently and Derek blinks at her.

“Of course. Stiles--he’s my best friend.”

Hailey hesitates and then, delicately, “Derek. I have a best friend.” He nods, because he knows. Of course she does. “Bec and I--we go out for dinner once in a while. We vacation once in a while. We text a lot. But--and I mean this in the best way possible, ok?--we aren’t anything like you and Stiles.”

Derek blinks down at his lasagna.

“How often do you see Stiles,” she asks, gently.

“Every day,” he answers immediately.

“And you cook together. You vacation together. You read books and talk constantly and shop together.”

His head snaps up, “How do you know that?”

“It’s Beacon Hills, Derek,” she says, exasperated.

“That--it doesn’t mean what you think,” he says, because it doesn’t. It’s pack. Stiles is _pack_ and he matters to Derek, but Stiles doesn’t want what he does. For Stiles it’s only ever been what a pack does for each other.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Are you very sure that you both are on the same page?”

He shrugs and smiles a little, and says, “It was his idea.”

“What was?”

“Dating. Me here with you. It was his idea.”

It’s only after her face crumples and she excuses herself to the bathroom that he realizes that was _definitely_ the wrong thing to say.

 

~*~

 

“How’d it go?”

Derek blinks at Stiles. He’s up early, for a Saturday--usually Derek has breakfast made and brought into where the young man is still asleep before he even thinks about stirring, and even then, he only wakes because of bacon and coffee.

Stiles sits up and reaches for his mug as Derek arranges breakfast on his bed and takes the desk chair.

“I think the fact that I’m here should tell you how it went.” Derek says, dryly.

Stiles nods, and sighs, a little despondent. “Same.” He perks up as Derek passes him the bacon and then gives Derek a curious look. “Why did Ben Andrews bolt when he found out we’re friends?”

“You went out with _Ben?”_ Derek almost snarls, and Stiles scowls. “He’s an asshole, Stiles, what the hell?”

“What, you think I should try for a doormat like Hailey?” Stiles snarks back, and Derek _does_ snarl this time around a mouthful of fangs.

“I think you should try for someone who actually would be good for you,” Derek spits, when he gets the shift under control. Stiles is staring at him with wide, hurt eyes and he shoves out of bed, pushing past Derek to scramble into his pants.

“I’ll get right on that. Just as soon as I find someone like that who wants me,” he bites out and Derek sighs, all the anger draining out of him. He reaches for Stiles, but the younger man evades him with the skill of long practice, and darts to the door. “I gotta run, lock up when you leave.” He doesn’t wait for Derek t respond before he slams out of the apartment, leaving Derek with their uneaten breakfast and no fucking clue what had just happened.

  


~9~

 

He's a little surprised when he gets to his dad's house and finds Derek in the kitchen.

The werewolf pauses in the middle of wrapping tinfoil in a packet around salmon, his eyes wide as he watches Stiles.

It's Sunday night, almost two days since the date night that went so horribly wrong, followed by a fight that still doesn't make any fucking sense, and he hasn't seen Derek since he left the alpha in his bedroom with a tray full of breakfast.

It's the longest they've gone without seeing each other while in Beacon Hills in _years_ and it's knowledge that buzzes under his skin.

"Didn't think you'd be here tonight," Stiles mutters and Derek flinches.

He blinks down at the foil packets of salmon, herbs and lemon. Says, dully, "Sorry. I can go."

"I don't want you to to," Stiles snaps, angry suddenly and Derek's shoulders hunch up, almost protectively. "I just--it startled me."

"I'm sorry," Derek murmurs and Stiles snorts, because sure, he can apologize for showing up at family dinner, but he can't apologize for being a dick about Stiles dating.

"What's wrong?" John says and both of them startle, Derek dropping the foil packet with a yelp that almost draws a smile from Stiles. The Sheriff is regarding them with suspicion familiar from Stiles' high school years and he plasters a smile on, bright and false.

"What makes you think anything is wrong?"

John leans back against the cabinet and shrugs. "Derek didn't try to sneak me any red meat tonight, which means he thinks you're upset with him."

Derek flushes and fusses with the foil packets some more. Stiles thinks that the packet will actually break if Derek doesn't leave it alone, but he's sure as hell not gonna stop the guy.

"You didn't arrive together, or let me know you weren't arriving together, which means you didn't talk and you weren't spending the day together."

"We don't spend every Sunday together," Stiles mutters and John arches an eyebrow.

"And I heard from Mrs. Garcia that you were on a date Friday night, Derek. So someone should probably explain what the hell is going on," John says and even though his voice is mild, Stiles feels that sharp pinch of nerves his father could always cause when Stiles pushed his limits.

"Ok, we got into an argument. I think Derek can do better than Hailey Phillips," he shrugs and Derek's head snaps up, his gaze incredulous.

"You--Ben fucking _Andrews_ , Stiles," he spits, and Stiles scowls.

"What did Ben ever do to you?"

Derek's evidently had enough of fucking with the potatoes because he dumps the foil packets on a baking sheet and hip checks Stiles out of his way. "What he _did_ was tell his fucking friends that he was going to take your virginity," Derek snarls, and whoa.

What.

"What?" John says, voice dangerously calm.

Derek's eyes are glowing and Stiles straightens. "He's a predatory asshole, Stiles."

"Hey," Stiles says, stepping closer to Derek, catching the fingers that are tipped in claws, drawing Derek's head down to his neck. Derek shivers and scents along his throat, a low whine in his throat.

"You should have told me," Stiles says, softly. "I didn't know."

Derek whines, and Stiles huffs. "You want to protect me, big guy, you gotta let me know what you're doing."

"'m sorry." Derek mumbles against his skin and Stiles laughs and scratches along his scalp.

His heart aches a little, when Derek pulls away, and gives him a shy smile.

"See how good things are when you use your words?" Stiles teases and Derek snaps at his fingers, poking at his chest.

"I won't see Hailey, again."

"Dude--"

"No, you're right. She's too sweet for me," Derek smiles, ruefully. "I need someone who can be as much as an asshole as I can be."

Stiles bites his lip, shoves down the urge to argue and Derek steps away, completely.

Stiles looks at his father, whose staring at them, a baffled look on his face.

"You are both _idiots_ ," he grumbles and snatches the beer Derek extends to him before stalking back into the living room.

 

~*~

 

Chrissy is behind the bar when Stiles trails Derek in on Monday night and her expression, usually bright and cheerful goes furious when she catches sight of him Stiles behind Derek.

She ignores him as she makes their drinks, and gives Derek a soft smile, “You ok, Der?”

He blinks, startled. “Um. I’m good. How are you?” he asks, cautiously.

She flicks a dirty look at Stiles and sniffs. “I’ve been better. You let me know if you need anything. Or,” her gaze slides to Stiles, “if anyone is bothering you.”

Derek twists to gape at Stiles. “What the hell did you do to Chrissy?”

“ _Nothing!_ She was acting the same way when I was here with Ben.”

“You brought Ben here?” Derek says, a little startled. He knows Stiles likes the familiar and routine, but--he always thought of this place as _theirs._ They rarely even invite John or Parrish to join them here.

“Dude, it’s been years since I dated, I just took him where I like,” Stiles grumbles and Derek smiles into his beer.

“And she was pissy then too?”

“Yeah.” Stiles watches as Chrissy pulls a beer and then shouts, “Chris!”

She scowls at him but stalks over. “What?”

“Can we get our usual?” Stiles asks, and her eyebrows go up.

“Oh, is that what you wanted? Because your date last week didn’t seem to like it.”

Stiles blinks, and Derek frowns. “Why did Ben order our usual?”

“He didn’t,” Stiles mutters, “she just brought it to him.” He directs a smile at Chrissy. “I promise there will be no complaints tonight. I apologize for Ben’s behavior the other night.”

She sputters. “ _Ben’s?_ Ben is single, Stiles. Ben isn’t the fucking problem. And you,” she points a finger at Derek. “You shouldn’t put up with his shit.”

Stiles frowns and pushes back from the bar. “I’m single,” he protests and Derek says, “What are you _talking_ about,” and Chrissy goes very still.

She stares at them for a long moment, and then she shakes her head.

“You are _idiots,”_ she snarls and stalks away down the bar.

 

~10~

 

Derek finds Hailey when he gets to school the next day, Chrissy’s behavior rattling around in his head.

Her smile, politely welcoming when he opened the classroom door, went closed and guarded and he felt his stomach twist.

He’d fucked up. Badly.

“Can we talk?”

“I really think that’s a bad idea,” she says, glancing away uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” he says, plaintive. “I--there’s no real excuse for my behavior, and I’m sorry.”

“Why did you even ask me out?” Hailey asks. “I mean, I know you and Stiles have been dating for years, so--I don’t even know what that _was._ Like, was it a weird intro to a threesome?”

He blinks, not sure what to even start with. “We’re not dating,” he says dumbly.

Ok, that’s a good place to start.

Hailey’s expression goes flinty and hostile and she stiffens. “I heard you on Friday, Derek. You’re friends. Whatever. Don’t label it. But don’t--you and Stiles have been together for longer than you’ve worked at this school. Don’t lie about it.”

She deliberately turns away from him and he has no idea what is even happening, so he turns. Pauses for just a second to say again, “I’m really sorry, Hailey.”

And then he’s gone.

 

~*~

 

“What are we doing?” Derek demanded, before he even straightens from coming through Stiles window and Stiles blinks at him.

“I’m doing research, dude. What are you doing?”

“Stop that,” Derek snaps, yanking the computer away from him and dragging Stiles to the bed. “What are _we_ doing?”

Stiles scowls. “Gonna need to be a little less cryptic, big guy.”

“Hailey thought we wanted to have a threesome with her.” Derek says, bluntly. “And Chrissy is mad because she thinks you’re cheating on me.”

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes, and opens again.

“Your _dad_ thinks we should be dating,” Derek says and Stiles goes still. “And the rest of this damn town things we _are_ . You spend more nights in my bed then you don’t. My cat likes you more than he likes me. We fucking shop together. I _miss_ you when I travel without you and if I go longer than twenty four hours without seeing you, I get bitchy and mean, and my wolf gets restless. You--I thought it was because we were pack, and then, after Mexico--” Derek cuts off with a frustrated noise, his breathing quick and panicked.

“Derek breath,” Stiles murmurs as he stands.

He’s pulling Derek’s head down into his neck and Derek whines, his lips brush against Stiles’ skin as he says, “This. Just. You calm me down with your scent, what the _hell_ , Stiles.”

“Listen to me,” Stiles says, his fingers squeezing the base of Derek’s neck. “They don’t matter. All those people you’re listening to, they don’t _matter.”_

Derek makes a broken noise and Stiles tucks him even tighter into his throat. “We matter, Der. Just us. So you tell me. What do you want us to be?”

Derek knows. It’s what he’s wanted from Stiles for years, what he’s never dared ask for.

He leans back and peers up at Stiles. Sees years of friendship and patience and love shining back.

“I don’t want to date. Other people. I don’t want to date other people.”

 

~11~

 

“I don’t want to date other people,” Derek says, and his eyes are so bright and steady and hopeful it makes something in Stiles loosen.

“Thank god,” he murmurs, and leans in.

The first kiss is chaste, a barely there brush of lips before he’s pulling back to gauge Derek’s response.

Already his eyes are closed, and he looks heartbreakingly open. Stiles rubs his thumb along the hinge of Derek’s jaw, and his eyes flutter open.

Stiles make a noise, and Derek’s gaze flashes, goes dark and hungry, just before he lunges forward, closes the gap between them with a hungry snarl that makes Stiles toes curl.

This isn’t gentle and it isn’t chaste. It’s hot and wet and _dirty,_ and Derek groans into it as Stiles licks into his mouth, that wicked tongue just as quick and clever as it ever has been. Derek’s hands hook under Stiles thighs, hitching them up and around his waist as he shoves Stiles into the wall.

“Shit, Der,”  Stiles gasps, his head tipping back and Derek growls, licking over the pale skin and biting down, making Stiles twitch. “Not that I haven’t fantasized about this since you were a murder suspect, but there’s a _bed_ ,” he pants, groaning on the last as Derek starts a dirty roll of his hips that has him seeing stars.

“Thought about it, huh?” Derek asks smugly.

Stiles nips at the shell of his ear and pants, “Like you haven’t.” He drags Derek’s head back and licks into his mouth as Derek’s hands slip between them, fumbling ineffectually at his pants and Stiles finally breaks away to groan, “Let me down, let me down, you idiot.”

Derek scrambles back and Stiles stumbles a little, whining to drag him closer even as he turns and falls on the bed. Derek grunts as he lands on Stiles, and then ducks down to that spot he always seems to find, the curve of Stilse’ throat, lips soft and distracting.

“Derek,” Stiles grits out. Derek smirks against his skin and bites down, hard, hard enough that Stiles jerks on the bed, his cock jerking.

“Off,” he snaps, “Clothes. Clothes off, why are clothes a thing, off!”

Derek laughs and leans up, stripping with casual ease. They’ve seen each other in various states of undress--there was even the time after they ran into a basilisk that they showered together, to anxious about acidic venom to worry about boundaries. But it’s never been like this, like Derek is naked _for_ him, preening under Stiles’ gaze, all rippling muscles and strength.

Stiles’ mouth goes dry and he whines, wordless, as Derek stoops down and kisses him, gently, easing his pants open and down until Stiles gets with the program and flails his leg around to kick off the jeans. Derek laughs against his mouth and catches his knee before it can hit him and Stiles grins.

Naked or not, Derek is still his best friend, the person who stayed, who knows him better than anyone in the world, and is looking at him like he hung the goddamn moon.

“I love you,” Stiles says.

Derek’s grin goes even wider, and he steals a kiss before he breathes, “I know.”

Stiles laughs because Derek is a fucking _dork_ and wiggles out of his shirt.

“This isn’t gonna last long,” Derek warns and he shrugs, his breath catching on a groan as Derek lines them up, wraps a slick--when the hell did he find the lube?--hand around their dicks, jacking slow and steady.

He shivers at the press of Derek’s big hot hand and the silky glide of Derek’s cock against his own, and smiles up at him. “We’ll do it again,” he promises.

Derek’s eyes flash blue and he thrusts up as Stiles wraps a hand around them, mouth watering at the weight of the werewolf’s cock.

“Next time, I’m gonna blow you first,” he decides, “And then,” he squeezes his hand tighter, twists a little and Derek moans around a mouthful of fangs, dips down to press them against fragile skin. “Then you can watch me open myself, all wet and loose, before you fuck me.”

He grunts when Derek bites him, snarling as he comes in hot white stripes across Stiles belly, before he slumps to the side.

Stiles drags Derek’s hand up and licks it clean, groaning as he jacks himself off with Derek’s come, and Derek is watching, eyes wide and soft before he kisses him, gently.

“Come for me, sweetheart,”  Derek murmurs and Stiles makes a noise that is almost a laugh, almost a sob, as he comes, so hard he can’t breath. Derek hums against his skin and then dips down, while Stiles is still gasping and twitching and slowly licks him clean.

Stiles watches, dazed and--”Oh, god, we should have done that _years_ ago.”

 

~*~

 

Stiles huffs and glares at the papers. Derek, engrossed in an essay, ignores him and Stiles glares even harder.

He marks another answer wrong and tosses it on the pile of graded tests. He flops back against the pillows and Derek makes a warning noise in his throat as he shakes the bed.

“You know, we could be having sex right now. I think we should totally be having sex right now.”

Derek ignores him.

“We got rid of hunters tonight,” Stiles whines. “And no one died!”

“That is _not_ our benchmark of successful,” Derek says firmly.

“Babe, that’s been our benchmark since I was in high school taking these damn things,” Stiles answers, tapping the stack of ungraded tests. Derek raises an unimpressed eyebrow and Stiles huffs, starting the next one.

They’ve been together for a month now. The first time John saw them kissing, he’d grumbled, “ _Finally,”_ before wandering away with his beer and a vague, “ _Don’t hurt him,”_ that neither was sure was directed at the other.

It was--easy. Comfortable. It was what they had been for so long, it felt like nothing changed.

Nothing _changed._

Derek was still a grumpy non-verbal ass when he wanted to be. Stiles still argued about everything and stole too much of the covers and over-caffeinated when he was deep in a research binge. They still bickered while they shopped and drank coffee and cooked.

He wasn’t even sure, exactly, how they got here. They didn’t plan on it. They didn't even plan on being friends. It just happened, a constant circle back to each other by necessity and choice.

He smiles around the red pen he is nibbling and Derek nudges him. “Finish those tonight and I’ll rim you before I fuck you,” he murmurs, peering at Stiles over the rim of his glasses.

Stiles smirks.

So, a _few_ things had changed.

“Deal,” he says, leaning over to seal it with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://areiton.tumblr.com/)


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